


don't let me fall behind

by growlery writes (growlery)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, light on the crime heavy on the feelings, so much handwaving i could be an aeroplane conductor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery%20writes
Summary: It happens quickly, too quickly, but this is how it ends: the guy is on the ground. The guy isn’t moving. Nolan is safe. There’s a knife in Travis’s side.Nolan is safe.





	don't let me fall behind

“Wait,” Travis says, “you want _Patty _on this?”

“Yeah,” Wayne says, smirking. “He cleans up nice.”

“I clean up nice!”

“Nice and wholesome,” Claude says, and then he sort of squints at Nolan. “If you wash the hair.”

“You say a fucking thing about rosy cheeks,” Nolan says, flat. 

“Okay, you want wholesome,” Travis says, “why not Carter?”

“Carter’s shit undercover,” Claude says. “I love the boy but he couldn’t lie to save his mother’s life.”

“He’s too fucking precious,” Travis mutters in mutinous agreement. 

“Besides,” Claude says, amused, “couldn’t split up the dream team.”

Travis makes an indignant noise. “Motherfucker, so you _do _want me in on this?”

“Oh yeah,” Wayne says. “We’ve got a real important job for you.”

*

“Can’t believe you get the fancy undercover job and I’m the fucking guy in the van,” Travis grumbles. 

Nolan, in his fancy fucking undercover job, can’t say anything back to him, or come put Travis in a chokehold until he shuts the fuck up; instead he looks right at the camera with a gaze Travis doesn’t need to be able to properly see to know is murderous. 

Travis grins. Getting to wind Nolan up when he can’t respond is a pretty sweet consolation prize. 

“I have fucking skills,” he continues, “I have shit to contribute, I’m fucking wasted watching security footage.” 

He looks away from the screen on Nolan and flicks over the others. Nothing useful. Nothing interesting. Reconaissance fucking blows. 

*

It goes like that, Nolan establishing his cover, Travis on security but mostly just on Nolan, watching him work. Nolan’s good at undercover work, is the thing. The second he leaves the van he slips right into good, clean Canadian boy, able to charm any and anyone with that slow, gorgeous smile, get information he shouldn’t, go places he shouldn’t. 

It’s a lot to witness. Of course Travis watches. 

He’s still talking Nolan’s ear off the whole time, but the novelty’s wearing off. Travis misses being manhandled. 

*

It’s a pretty textbook job in the end. They make a plan, they follow the plan, shit goes sideways. 

Travis has to crawl through fucking air vents to get Nolan in, and Nolan mocks him the entire time for being small enough to fit. He’s so excited to be able to be a shit again, there’s almost inflection in his voice. 

They make the grab, and then there are bullets, and Nolan’s hands are full. Travis is on it. He has fucking skills. He has shit to contribute. 

He gets Nolan cover, takes out two guns at the front, hears bullets rip past him, keeps firing. His heart is pounding. He feels so fucking alive. 

They’re out, they’re almost out, and then someone’s coming at Nolan with a knife. Travis doesn’t think. Travis moves. 

It happens quickly, too quickly, but this is how it ends: the guy is on the ground. The guy isn’t moving. Nolan is safe. There’s a knife in Travis’s side. 

Nolan is safe. 

“Oh, fuck,” Nolan says, shit-scared in a way Travis has never seen him, “fuck, TK, you fucking idiot.”

Nolan shoves the goods into his arms and Travis blinks at him from the ground, and then he blinks at him from the air, because Nolan has fucking picked him up and is carrying him out of there. 

Travis can’t have lost that much blood yet, but he thinks Nolan’s levering him into the passenger seat of the van, which can’t be right. Nolan’s a shitty fucking driver, Travis drives, Travis always drives, but Travis blinks, and blinks again, and there Nolan is: white-faced behind the steering wheel, foot on the gas. 

“You fucking idiot,” Nolan says, and Travis might have to rethink the blood thing, because he’s too woozy to find a smart response. That could be the pain, though. There’s a lot going on with Travis’s body right now, and it’s pretty fucking pissed at him. 

“You said that already,” he manages. He’s keeping pressure on the wound like you’re supposed to - he’s seen ER, okay - but it feels kind of like he’s holding himself together with bloody fingers and a huge-ass knife. Like, ow. 

“I could have handled it,” Nolan says, like Travis didn’t even speak, “you didn’t have to try and die for me.”

Travis scoffs. “It’s not like I took a bullet for you,” he says, and, look at that, he can still be a smartass after all. “It’s a fucking knife wound, bud, calm down.”

“That you’re bleeding out from,” Nolan says, “_bud_.”

“You’d have done the same for me,” Travis says. “We have each other’s backs. What else was I supposed to do?”

Nolan makes a noise, kinda like a snort, but a little wet, and, oh, fuck, he can’t be fucking crying. Nolan’s not allowed to fucking cry. 

“It’s fine,” Travis says quickly, “I’m gonna be fine. Just a scratch, eh?”

“You fucking better,” Nolan says. “If you die I’m never speaking to you again.”

*

Fuck, fuck, it hurts so _fucking _much. 

*

Things are kinda fuzzy after that. He remembers getting out of the car and slumping back against it, Nolan’s strong arms pulling him up, Nolan lifting him up again. He remembers Claude’s voice, thick with worry, Ghost holding fingers up in front of his face. 

He doesn’t remember passing out, but he must have, because he wakes up. He blinks, blinks again; there’s a flurry of colours and shapes that are trying to resolve into people in front of him, and then, suddenly, an angel, haloed in light, looking down upon him with a face that, huh, looks a lot like Nolan’s. 

“Huh,” Travis says. “Does Nolan know you guys have an angel version of him just, like, hanging out?” 

“Oh my god,” the angel says, which seems kinda weird, a heavenly being taking the Lord’s name in vain and all, but hey, Travis has never met an angel before. Maybe they’re all like this, red face, lank hair, monotone voice. 

Travis is still slowly blinking; he can see Claude now, somewhere in the vague vicinity of where Travis assumes his feet are. Travis gives him a weak little wave. 

“Yeah,” Claude says, “he’s fine. I’ll, uh. I’ll leave you to it.”

“So do angels not have wings, or are you, like.” Travis narrows his eyes. “Hiding ‘em somewhere.”

“You fucking dumbass,” the angel says, “it’s me,” and Travis’s eyes go wide. 

“Oh,” he says, and then beams. “Hey, Nolan.”

“You’re so fucking high,” Nolan says, and Travis always likes to think that Nolan finds him at least kind of amusing, but he’s a hundred percent sure he’s not imagining it this time. 

Ninety percent. 

Seventy five. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Travis says. He sighs dreamily. “I should get stabbed more often.”

“No you really fucking shouldn’t,” Nolan snaps, and, shit, is Nolan mad at him? 

“Patty,” Travis says, uncertain, “I was joking. I make jokes. I’m the joke man.”

Nolan exhales. “You sure are, bud.”

“I’m not sorry,” Travis says. “I think I’m supposed to say I am but that’s bullshit and I’m not gonna lie to you. I’d do it again. I’d do it a hundred fucking times. I’m glad it’s me here and not you.” He grins, quick, easy, the easiest thing he’s ever done. “Whatever they gave me is fucking _amazing_.”

Nolan laughs, one of the ones he doesn’t mean to give Travis, but come out, anyway. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“And that’s why you love me, eh?” Travis says, still grinning, and Nolan’s smile goes small and lethal, his gaze dropping. 

“Yeah,” Nolan says, “I guess it is.”

Travis follows Nolan’s eyes down to the bandage wrapped around and around Travis’s waist. 

“Oh, wow,” he says, “that scar’s gonna be sick.”

*

Ghost patched Travis up pretty good; he’s good to fucking go; Nolan grabs Travis by the collar when he tries to open the driver’s side door and drags him around the van. Travis has got some shit to say about Nolan driving _again_, but it can wait. Nolan tricked him into complacency with manhandling, like he knows that’s Travis’s number one Nolan Patrick weakness, his strong, capable, fucking _enormous_ hands.

Nolan chokes out a laugh. “How is it possible for you to talk _more_.”

“Buddy,” Travis says, with gravitas, “I have barely _begun _to talk.”

And then he, like, almost immediately falls asleep. Travis was _stabbed in the side, _okay, and then pumped up to the gills with whatever’s in Ghost’s secret sauce. He’s allowed to have delusions of grandeur. 

Nolan must be saving this for future chirping material, because he doesn’t say anything as he eases Travis out of the van and into their apartment building, looping Travis’s arm around his waist. 

Travis beams up at him. “An angel,” he says, and Nolan groans. 

“Not fucking this again.”

“No, no,” Travis says, “_you’re _the angel, Patty.”

Nolan either doesn’t get it or is deliberately ignoring him; he doesn’t say anything as he props Travis against a wall. He pats himself down, produces a set of keys, opens the door, collects Travis again. 

“Wow, this looks just like your apartment,” Travis says, looking around. He squints. “This… is your apartment?”

“Well done, Teeks,” Nolan says, “stellar fucking skills of deduction there.”

Travis frowns. “Why am I in your apartment.”

“I’m not leaving you alone after you got yourself stabbed,” Nolan says, clearly offended. 

Travis didn’t tell his face to smile, but he’s pretty sure it’s doing it anyway. “You’re gonna take care of me?”

“You’ll take care of your goddamn self,” Nolan says. “I’m just gonna keep an eye on you so you don’t brain yourself on a hard surface and die.”

“You’re gonna take care of me,” Travis says happily, and Nolan sighs. 

“Yeah, bud,” he says. “Always.”

Travis feels like he’s floating, emotionally and kinda also physically, he’s not super clear on what his feet are doing right now, until he’s anchored by blankets and pillows that smell of Nolan, and home. 

“I love you too, Pats,” Travis says. “So fucking much. Ride or fucking die, you know? I love you.”

Silence. Travis thinks he’s already dreaming, maybe, because the next thing he feels is soft lips on his forehead, fingers through his hair. 

“Go the fuck to sleep, Trav,” Nolan says. 

*

Travis isn’t sure what wakes him, the pain or the mattress dipping and taking him with it, but he doesn’t worry about it for long. 

“Fucking ow,” he says, “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Nolan says. “Take your painkillers instead of whining, maybe.”

Oh, right. Travis is in Nolan’s bed. Nolan took him back to his place. Nolan put a glass of water and a stack of painkillers beside the bed, because Nolan’s a fucking champ. 

“You’re a fucking champ,” Travis tells him, and cracks on with the first pack of pills. “Did I say anything embarrassing while I was high as shit?”

“Everything you say is embarrassing,” Nolan says, but he’s not looking at Travis. 

“What,” Travis says. “What is it, god, just tell me so I can apologise and we can forget it ever happened.”

Nolan keeps not looking at him. Travis says, soft, “Patty,” and Nolan takes a long breath and looks up. 

“You said you loved me,” he says. 

“Oh,” Travis says. “I mean.” He swallows. “It’s true.”

“I said I loved you too.”

“Oh,” Travis says. 

“That’s. Also true.”

“Like.” Travis swallows. “Like bros, or.”

“Like bros,” Nolan says, and Travis heart sinks, “and like I thought I was gonna die if I had to watch you fucking bleed to death, and like I want you around all of the time even when you’re annoying as shit, and like _this_,” he says, and kisses Travis. 

Travis’s mouth responds on autopilot, which is good because his brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, and Travis wants to kiss Nolan, Travis always wants to be kissing Nolan. 

Nolan pulls back after a minute, only enough to tip his head against Travis’s forehead and breathe into the space between their mouths. Travis kisses his nose, just because. 

“That could be bros too,” he says. 

“I take it all back,” Nolan says, “I fucking hate you-”

“Too late,” Travis says, and he’s grinning, beaming, can’t keep it from bursting out of him. “You’re not getting rid of me now, bud. You _love _me. That’s, like, so embarrassing for you.”

“You love me too, dumbass,” Nolan says, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, but I’m me, and you’re you.”

“Do you think about the words that come out of your mouth,” Nolan says. “Like, ever, do you think about them.”

Travis could respond, or he could shut Nolan up by kissing him, because that’s a thing he can do now. 

Travis takes the L. Nolan laughs against his mouth. 

“Here’s something I’ve thought about, like, a lot,” Travis says. “Boyfriends? You and me?”

“Boyfriends,” Nolan agrees, and he’s smiling all over his goddamn perfect face, lit up like a sunbeam, lit up like a-

“Oh, fuck,” Travis says, horrified, “I thought you were an angel.”

“Yeah,” Nolan says. “I’m never letting you live that one down.”


End file.
